


Over the hills and a great way off

by moth2fic



Category: Sharpe (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-14
Updated: 2010-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharpe and Harper are alone on the Spanish/Portuguese border</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the hills and a great way off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dishonestdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/gifts).



> All my films and books are in storage so I have had to rely on Wikipedia. I have set the story in 1812 and given the plot some possible historical accuracy in terms of the Peninsular Campaign. I have deliberately been vague about Sharpe’s current military rank and marital status. However, the books and the films are inconsistent, so I’m sticking by my story! And I know the geography both personally and well.
> 
> Many thanks to Marg for her eagle-eyed beta and for helping to improve the story. Thanks, too, to Dreamersdare for making me revisit a much-loved fandom.

The Rifles had been sent to chase any straggling Frenchies out of Braga, preferably eastwards, or if that proved impossible, north to the Spanish coast. Of course, if they managed to eliminate a few en route Wellesley would turn a blind eye. Nobody wanted Napoleon to augment his forces in the region.

“But I’m thinking,” said Patrick, “that they would not be so welcome, so they wouldn’t. They’ve stayed safe in their isolated pockets while we retook Ciudad Rodrigo. Their friends, or rather their former friends, wouldn’t be very pleased with them at all.”

“Their friends might not,” said Richard, “but their commanders would welcome them with open arms. Hadn’t you heard? He’s sent half the army to Moscow and needs every man here he can get.”

Patrick considered. “Why has he done that?”

“I think he hopes to conquer Russia. Megalomania is his middle name after all.” There was a further silence while Patrick pondered. When he’d worked out what megalomania probably meant he muttered,

“It’s a long way to walk.”

“And an even longer way to walk back,” Richard said, his eyes gleaming with humour. “He won’t win. Nobody ever wins against the Russians. They have the land and the winter on their side. They’ll send him packing and those poor buggers will have to march all the way back to Paris without a decent pair of shoes between them. They’ll have worn them through on the way there, d’you see?” he added.

There were very few French troops to chivvy over the border. Most of the last tail end had scuttled up to Santander while Wellesley was concentrating on Badajoz and Ciudad Rodrigo. There they’d taken ship for Bayonne and home. The Rifles had little to do.

“Our orders say we’ve to head back and cross into Spain ourselves,” Richard told his men. “We’re to join the rest of the army in time for a midsummer push against Salamanca.” The men groaned. Sharpe’s Chosen preferred to work as a small unit under the leader they respected. Joining a big push meant too many colonels, too many conflicting orders and too much pointless marching here, there and back again. Patrick groaned with them but kept an eye on those who groaned loudest; they would be the ones who tried least.

However, orders were orders and they passed the road that led south to Almeida, looking longingly in the direction of the comforts offered by the star-shaped fortress, but heading dutifully for the border. Sharpe had decided to cross the river at Barca de Alva. It was a more direct route and they were less likely to fall in with regular troops. Those would no doubt enter Spain at Vilar Formoso, crossing straight into Fuentes de Onoro, now firmly in the hands of the British and their Spanish allies. He would avoid their company while he could. There might still be Frenchies in the more benighted reaches of the Trás-os-Montes. They would offer little resistance to his riflemen and hunting them out would add to the tally of success, which had, so far, been low on this mission.

“We can start them like hares,” he said. “Then we can chase them till they reach Spain or till they give in. It doesn’t matter which.”

“And are we to ‘eliminate’ them if they give in?” someone asked. Hagman, Patrick thought.

“Not if they give us their parole,” said Sharpe. “But I shall be loath to spare anyone to escort them to Almeida so they’ll have to stay under our watchful eyes till we reach Ciudad. We’ll have to feed them, as well, so we’d better start some real hares too.” He grinned. The men enjoyed hunting for the pot, vying with each other to see whose rifle could bring in the most food. He let them do it. It wasn’t a waste of ammunition; on the contrary, it honed their skills in an exercise that was practical as well as of military use.

“So you’ll be hoping there’ll be some Frenchies to feed?” Patrick knew, as usual, exactly what Richard was thinking.

“Yes, Sergeant Harper, it would suit me well if we found a few human hares in these hills.”

They didn’t, and both Richard and his sergeant were relieved in the end at not having to watch prisoners in the difficult terrain. There were plenty of hares for the pot and the rifles rang through the stony gullies, sometimes hitting hares and sometimes boulders that loomed in odd shapes and colours against the grass. The Chosen ate well.

The Douro at Barca was crossed and the men started to scale the cliffs on the other side, two thousand feet up onto the Spanish plain. There was no obvious border but they were in another country now. Looking back, catching their breath on the climb, they could see the river winding its way through steep vineyards that would lead eventually to Porto and the sea. It was a spectacular view.

“Keep your eyes on the track and your feet firmly on the stones.” Sharpe shouted at them as if they were recalcitrant schoolboys and Patrick repeated his words to any individual who seemed to be wool-gathering. No-one fell. Patrick thanked the Virgin Mary under his breath and Richard simply congratulated everyone on having made the ascent safely.

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They slept where they were, scattered just above the cliffs, blending with the rocks. In the morning they would continue their journey. But morning found them benighted.

The plain is high - as high as some mountains but flat - a vast plateau of stones and emptiness with scattered cork oaks and olives decorating the dour landscape. In summer it bakes; in winter it freezes. This was late spring, and warm air from the Atlantic had met the chilled ground. The plain was invisible thorough the fog.

“Look out for yourselves, men,” said Richard. “We’ll regroup at Ciudad as soon as we can. Keeping together in this will just slow us down and irritate us all for no real benefit.” The men squared their shoulders proudly. Sharpe trusted them to get to Ciudad and they would. They were his Chosen and they would justify that choice. Patrick followed Richard. Someone would need to stay with him, stop him falling into one of his moods, keep him fed, make him sleep. Patrick would follow Richard anywhere but it was good to have a reason, to tell himself he was needed. He hoped it was true.

They headed as roughly east as they could. The mist was disorientating. Oaks and a few umbrella pines loomed out of it like mop headed giants. A few sheep baaed somewhere right or left, in front or behind. Sounds behaved oddly in the absence of sight. The footsteps of the others were audible at first then faded. The next sheep had Patrick reaching for his rifle but then he laughed uneasily. It wouldn’t do to take a shepherd’s charge without permission and what would they do with a whole sheep between them?

“Besides,” said Richard, when Patrick voiced his thought, “you were just reacting to the noise, as if it was a Frenchie. Not that Frenchies baa, but sometimes I think they might as well, for all the sense you get out of them.”

A figure swirled into view and out again, the shepherd, probably, a dog close by his heels and a sling in his hand. He vanished before they could speak to him, no doubt taking care to move his flock further from the possible depredations of British soldiers.

“If he even knew we were soldiers,” said Richard.

“He’d have to be deaf and blind not to know soldiers in these parts,” said Patrick.

“But he probably spends his time with the sheep and it’s a big country to get lost in. He might not even know he’s at war.”

They saw no-one else though they passed a ruined cottage with a huge storks’ nest almost hiding the chimney. An early stork clacked warningly at them and Patrick’s rifle jerked again. Richard laughed.

“They don’t even make good eating, and besides, we have enough food. We’ll get more supplies when we join the main army.” There were frogs croaking happily in the next stream they crossed, and they filled their water bottles, trying to avoid frogspawn in their drinks. No wonder the storks arrived early here; there were rich pickings.

The going was slow. They were used to marching hard but they couldn’t hurry in case they caught a foot in a rabbit hole. Patrick cursed rabbits then retracted the curse. Rabbits were their staple fare. The land seemed strange. They knew there was a huge plain stretching in all directions but their world was limited to a few feet to either side and an arm’s length in front. The day was long.

Patrick glanced at Richard from time to time. The fog was sometimes thick enough to hide them from each other but somehow he was always aware of the presence beside him. More than aware. And recently he’d thought perhaps Sharpe shared the awareness. A long look, a stretch when he thought he was being watched, a touch on the shoulder that lingered beyond the natural. Once, he had come upon Richard bathing and the man had made no attempt to cover himself. Soldiers didn’t have time for false modesty but he thought there had been almost a sense of display. Not that they ever had time or privacy to discuss the matter. Oh, nobody would interrupt or even eavesdrop while Sharpe was talking strategy or morale with his sergeant, but they lived in a glass bowl, watched by all and sundry, all being the army and sundry being the Riflemen.

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Dusk was falling, as far as they could tell. At least, the fog was darker and they were stumbling even more often. Then Richard, slightly ahead of his companion, walked into a wall.

“Who left a stone wall lying around for people to trip over in this cursed mist?” he asked after he’d finished swearing and rubbing his knees.

“If there are stones there will be people who use them for walls.” Patrick was still a country boy at heart; Richard knew nothing about the need for walls and fences outside his townie upbringing.

“Well I could wish they’d use softer stones!” Richard acknowledged Patrick’s wisdom ruefully but wanted the last word. “ But Patrick,” he went on, “they could offer shelter of a sort. D’you think we should maybe settle for the night in the lee of a wall? Something to lean against, at least. I don’t fancy sitting down in the middle of a field in this weather. I’d feel - vulnerable, I think. What d’you say, Pat?” Patrick agreed, with what almost passed as enthusiasm, and they followed the wall until they found a slight hollow in the ground beside it. They sat, sighing as they rested their feet. Then Patrick began to clean his rifle, handling the delicate operation by touch, so used to the task that he didn’t need to see. Richard followed his example and they worked companionably in silence.

Patrick finished first, and the mist drifted for a moment, letting Richard see his sergeant kiss the barrel of his weapon in a gesture that was clearly as much a habit as the cleaning. There was a murmured prayer, too.

“You love your rifle, don’t you?”

“Indeed and I do. I love it more than anything, I think.”

“More than your woman?”

“Now, there’s a difference, but yes, more than my woman.”

“I wouldn’t let her hear you say that!”

“But if I didn’t have my rifle I wouldn’t have my woman, and for sure I wouldn’t be able to keep her safe, so you see...”

Yes, I do.” Richard fell silent. Patrick suspected he’d be thinking of how Teresa would never have wanted her safety to depend on someone else’s rifle.

ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

They munched on some dryish bread and big chunks of meat, hare or rabbit, greasy and sustaining. Their flasks were full with water from the stream so they would not go thirsty even if the fog didn’t lift and they didn’t find another stream in the morning.

“Do you not love your rifle, then?”

Patrick’s question was more by way of making conversation than a real query but Richard took it seriously. “I think I do,” he said. “It has a certain beauty and I trust it with my life, which is more than can be said for some women. But it’s cold and hard. What...?” He felt the barrel of Patrick’s rifle glide across the skin of his cheek, a smooth chilled caress.

“Sometimes I like to be close to something long and hard,” said Patrick. He was aghast at his own temerity but now that he’d started this he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Except that he’d rather not be hung at all. He shook the ammunition he’d loaded into his hand, replacing it in his pouch. Games were one thing. Games with live bullets were another and one neither of them were fool enough to play, he hoped. “I’m not so sure about the cold part but metal can warm easily when it’s rubbed,” he said. Then he grabbed Richard’s wrist and guided his hand to the barrel. As he’d intended, Sharpe grasped it loosely and rubbed the metal.

“Long and hard?” He murmured the question almost to himself but Patrick laughed.

“I think you’re taking my meaning,” he said, and Richard laughed in return. Then there was an uneasy silence as if they might have gone too far or too fast. They were so rarely alone; this was new territory and there was no map.

Richard’s rifle lay between them and now he too emptied his weapon. He replaced it by his side and Patrick knew he had edged closer by the fact that he could now feel the rifle barrel pressing into his thigh. He stroked the weapon, and let his hand stray further when it encountered the owner’s knee. He was rewarded with a low gasp.

They came together hesitantly at first, uncertain, both of them. Patrick thought the mist might clear and let fire and brimstone rain from above. But the fog blanketed them, cocooned them in a kind of safety. Lips fumbled briefly beside ears, noses, cheeks before settling into a fierce kiss. Hands explored, tentatively then, once certain of their welcome, bolder and more far-reaching. Either they were quiet or the fog muffled their sounds.

Entangled in Richard’s arms, Patrick could still feel the smooth length of the rifle along what was now his bare thigh. His own rifle, he noted hazily, was pretending to be a pillow, uncomfortable, no doubt, but Richard wasn’t complaining.

Their coupling, in the end, was fast and efficient; marksmen, both of them, expert at hitting the targets they had chosen. Richard gave a grunt of satisfaction and rolled away but Patrick flung a proprietorial arm across him.

“A good sergeant always keeps his weapons and his men within reach, even when he’s asleep,” he said.

“But you’re my sergeant and I’m not one of your men.”

“No, you’re not. You’re my man, the most important one.”

“More important than your rifle?”

The question was faintly mocking and took him unawares so that he blurted out, “Yes,” before he’d had time to think. There was no more verbal conversation, though plenty of another sort. Eventually they slept, rifles beneath and between them.

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The morning was bright, all fog gone. They could see, on the eastern horizon, the looming walls of Ciudad Rodrigo. Another hour’s march last night and they could have reached its bustling garrison and slept in military beds. Patrick sat up, shaking tousled dark curls.

“The world looks clean, newly-rinsed,” said Richard, standing and stretching.

“All our sins washed away?” Patrick raised an eyebrow. Richard shrugged and gave one of his lop-sided smiles.

“For now, perhaps,” he said, “but I’m sure true sinners will fall by the wayside now and again.” He looked directly at Patrick. “There might be a lot of waysides between here and victory.” Patrick’s heart did a slow somersault and then settled. He didn’t need to reply; wherever Richard went, he would be there with him. They broke their fast and drank deeply from their flasks before shouldering their rifles.

They quickly covered the ground between their resting place and the city, and as they approached the river south of the walls they found their men gathering. Then a stream of scarlet marched out between the gates on the double walls, and they fell in line, marching as soldiers instead of moving independently as scouts. Ciudad sent them off without even a halt for lunch.

Together the red coats and the green jackets headed to confrontation with the blue of the French, all the bright colours converging on the city of Salamanca.


End file.
